


this is a state of grace

by sparklylulz (sparklyulz)



Series: Happy Birthday Sara! [5]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyulz/pseuds/sparklylulz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Most people dream of mundane things like flying or their teeth falling out, but you dream of dying in war, Watson. What do you suppose that says about your psyche?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a state of grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikingsparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikingsparks/gifts).



> For Sara. Happy (late late) birthday boo!

Gunshots. Blood. Heat.

Joan Watson wakes at precisely 3:34 a.m. and makes her way down to the kitchen, eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Sherlock is still up, naturally, pouring over data from their last case. The papers are spread out on the floor around him like a child might leave their toys. His bare back is turned towards her, the black ink on his shoulder blade looks almost blue in the dim kitchen light.

"You're up rather earlier than usual, Watson," He remarks without turning around. "I've found that you are rather fond of sleeping in."

"Bad dream," She mutters quietly. She turns to grab a mug from a cabinet, pointedly ignoring the mess in their shared sink.

Sherlock does turn around at this, his keen eyes taking in her tousseled hair and half-tugged on robe. 

"About the operating room?" He asks, studying her face.

"What?" Her eyebrows come together. She hasn't dreamt of the operating room in months and months.

He turns back to the papers with a small shrug. "Sometimes you speak in your sleep. Thin walls have always been a problem at The Brownstone."

Joan doesn't know what to say back, so instead she busies herself with making green tea. Out of reflex she pulls down another mug. That's how things are now with Sherlock: they come in pairs. Their coats hanging in the hallway, the toothbrushes in the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, even them as people. Always in sets of two. 

She places the mug next to him, knowing if it isn't coffee he has no interest in it, but that's what makes her so special to Sherlock; she's just as stubborn as he is.

"It was about Iraq." Joan says finally, watching him rifle through files, trying to soak in every detail. 

"You do not strike me as someone who spends their time vacationing in the Middle East." Sherlock responds dryly.

She rolls her eyes, "I've never been to Iraq, Sherlock."

"An obvious deduction," He starts.

"I dream that I'm a soldier. Sometimes in Iraq, sometimes in Afghanistan. Usually the dream ends with me being shot in the chest." She elaborates, staring at her hands. 

Joan doesn't know any soldiers, not really. She's operated on them before -- men and women who came home from the frontlines with scars crisscrossing up their arms and legs -- but she's never tearfully wished anyone goodbye in an airport. 

"Most people dream of mundane things like flying or their teeth falling out, but you dream of dying in war, Watson." Sherlock says, turning briefly from his papers to look up at her. "What do you suppose that says about your psyche?"

"I don't know, I was a surgeon not a psychiatrist." She replies easily, taking another sip out of her mug. 

She likes having Sherlock around at 3 a.m. when she can't sleep, she guesses he understands this. His brain never stops, not even to let the rest of him relax. 

Surprisingly, he lets out a small snort. "I assure you, had you been a psychiatrist, I doubt we would have remained friends after your companion work expired."

The word friend sounds strange coming out of Sherlock's mouth. He isn't looking at her when he says it, but as with everything around Sherlock, small victories are important, too.

Instead of pointing out his word choice, she slinks to the ground next to him, staring at the photographs in the file. Their shoulders touch, but she doesn't move away from him, and he doesn't mention anything about personal space or what the color of her bathrobe suggests about her parents' marriage.

Small victories.


End file.
